Are You My Father?

When that big, bearded Pat Sajak in the sky spun the wheel of fortune that would determine who my mother would be, the wheel landed on 'Caribbean Cruise'.  My mom is awesome, and fun.  Except when she is lecturing me about winter highway safety via Gchat from 2000 miles away, like she is at this moment.  But still, I love her.  However, when Deity Pat Sajak spun the wheel a second time, for my father, he landed on 'bankrupt'.  I mean, this was the 80's, so Pat was probably plastered at the time, but still.  Bad move.  My dad was not winning any Father of the Year awards.  I will leave it at that for now. 

[Sidenote:  I can't stand Wheel of Fortune.  I just.  Can't.  Stand it.

I was raised by my mom and grandmom, with minimal, mostly unpleasant weekend interludes with my father that usually entailed him watching football with his buddies and getting drunk while I sat in a corner reading a book with my shirt collar over my face to block out some of the second-hand smoke.  Because of this, I sometimes fantasize about who I would pick for a dad if I had a choice.  As a purely hypothetical exercise, I even allow myself to be a little creepy and pick would-be fathers based on how hot they are.  Sometimes, that makes me question my sanity, so I was thrilled to realize I'm not the only person with some kind of disturbing Electra complex when I read this post on Hello Giggles last week.  The author makes some intriguing selections for her list of "Men I Would Equally Like to Date and Have Be My Father," including the obvious George Clooney and the highly questionable Jerry Orbach.

I think my list would not be that inappropriate from a romantic perspective, but it is much less realistic on the father side with respect to the ages/sexual orientations of these potential incestuous suitor-fathers.

1.  Jon Hamm

He's very handsome, which would mean that I would most likely inherit some good genes.  Also, he has this innate goofiness to his smile that makes me think he would probably be a pretty fun dad, especially for little kids.  However, he's only 41, and I might have a hard time respecting a dad who was 14 at the time of my conception.

2.  Woody Allen

No incest issues there.  Nope.  Also, bonus, Jewish.

3.  Elton John

I already have had the experience of basically being raised by two moms, albeit straight ones, so I bet it would be a hell of a ride to have two dads, one of whom is Elton freaking John.

4.  Brad Pitt

He has so many kids already, what's one more?  He won't even notice.  And maybe...just maybe...in a really dark room...if he was under the influence of a fistful of roofies...he might mistake me for his wife. 

5.  Tom Hanks

Consistently regarded as one of the nicest and most trustworthy people in Hollywood.  How could you go wrong?  His real-life son seems to have turned into a decent human being, so there's that.  Just as long as he's more like the Tom Hanks from Apollo 13 and not Forrest Gump.

6.  Jeff Bridges

The dude abides, that's all I'm saying. 

7.  Bert

I can't even begin to explain this one, suffice to say that there was a very long succession of plush Bert dolls that never left my tiny little fist during my entire toddlerhood.

8.  Clint Eastwood

Boyfriends of the past would have cowered in sheer terror if Clint Eastwood answered the door.  Clint Eastwood via Dirty Harry or Gran Torino would have ripped multiple new ones in the handful of misguided, ritalin-addled kids who tormented me from 6th through 8th grades.

9.  Paul Newman

We have this picture in our house of Paul Newman that guests often mistake for a picture of Andy.  Around 1970, my grandmom went through a decoupage phase.  For my mom, she Mod-Podged a magazine cutout of a profile view of Paul Newman, sitting in a rowboat drinking coffee, onto an 8" x 10" wooden plank.  Years later, I found it in a closet and made it my own.  Paul Newman was an all-around good guy and philanthropist, and I have a feeling that with eyes that blue, he could have grounded me for a year and I wouldn't have cared.

10.  Anderson Cooper

The quintessential silver fox.  He's so smart, and witty, and cute!  Have you ever SEEN that video of Anderson giggling?  I'm too lazy to find it now, but just google "Anderson Cooper giggling" and I'm sure you'll find it.

Wildcard:  Ellen DeGeneres

Who says a woman can't be a father?  My mom and grandmom basically had to be both mother AND father for me.  I bet Ellen would do a bang-up job, too.

Goal Check-in

Little baby 2012 is almost 2 months old.  If this year were a human baby, it would probably be walking and eating solids and speaking three languages and possibly studying for its MCAT by now.  I don't even know what I'm saying, I know nothing about child development, which might be a problem some day.  But I have to assume that any child of mine will be super advanced, because, obviously.  Anyway, this might be a good time to revisit some of my goals/not-resolutions for 2012.  As you may recall, there were a lot, and some were rather ambitious.  I kind of only want to touch on the ones I've been rocking, because self-esteem is a finite resource and I don't want to squander it by reminding myself of my failures. 

1.  No hangovers.  I hope you can still hear me over the thunderous applause as my legions of supporters put their hands together to celebrate my success thus far.  Not one iota of hangover.  Not even the teensiest headache from red wine overindulgence.  I did, however, feel like I was going to die when I ate a big cookie and drank some hot chocolate (think worst skull splitting pain one can experience without giving birth to an alien baby through one's forehead).  So consider me duly chastised for consuming too much of something, at any rate.

2.  Cook new recipes.  Also a big time victory so far.  There are so many great places on The Internets to find exciting, healthy recipes!  Some of my favorites are Whole Living, the blog My New Roots, and Martha Rose Shulman's 'Recipes for Health' for the New York Times.  Pinning these recipes to my 'Noms' board on Pinterest hasn't hurt this newfound ambition, either.  When I joined Pinterest I was determined not to let my boards languish in the purgatory of 'ideas for someday never".  I've kept my promise, at least on the food-themed board.

I think I've managed to add some keepers to my cooking repertoire.  It's been good to liven up the rotation, and it makes me feel creative instead of feeling as though coming home and getting right into the kitchen is some kind of drudgery.  My absolute favorite new thing I tried was this outrageous recipe for chocolate cookies...made with black beans and cayenne pepper!  So, so so good and with very little sugar and loads of fiber so I can actually eat them without feeling like someone drove railroad spikes through my temples.  I think, with the exception of Christmas, I have become so used to eating very little sugar, outside of natural sugars found in fruits and orange juice, that I find myself having really strong reactions to processed sugar.  This is a good thing, really, but sometimes a lady just wants to eat a cookie, okay?

Other winners include this unusual recipe for savory bread pudding with kale and mushrooms from NYT.  Try it.  You and your mouth will not regret it.  I added a chopped onion, because it's not dinner in our house without an onion in the mix.  Even Andy liked it, so much so that he took the leftovers for lunch today.  If you are at all familiar with his aversion to eating the same thing two days in a row, this was kind of a big deal for me. 

Not the most photogenic meal, but I assure you it tastes like a hug.  For your mouth. 

Last week I made this frittata with ricotta, spinach, and tomato (and onions, obvi).  That was decent, if a little bland, but nothing some Tapatio hot sauce couldn't fix.

On Sunday, I whipped up this Mediterranean fish chowder that I thought was bangin'.  Andy's verdict was 'meh'.  Too bad, son, Tuesday night is leftovers night so I can get to yoga by 7:30!

Later this week, I'll be making a spicy chickpea stew and a quinoa-garbanzo-spinach-feta salad.  I'm glad that even though I will be essentially eating chickpeas for the next four nights (factoring in leftovers from each recipe), I can switch it up and call them garbanzos just for S's and G's.

I also made a really sweet quiche so I could finally use the pie server I got for Christmas.  That was delicious, as always, and I made it slightly less unhealthy than it would otherwise be by swapping out half the flour for whole wheat flour in the crust, and using less cheese.  Then there was the Jewish lentil soup that I thought was awesome but Andy couldn't get past its resemblance to baby poop.

Full disclosure:  I tried this recipe mainly because it was Jewish, which of course meant it tasted like thousands of years of wisdom, liberally seasoned with guilt and a dash of schlepping.  But sweet fancy Moses was it delicious.

 Ooh, and I finally made sweet potato fries that weren't totally soggy!  And I'm sure I made some other stuff that very likely involved beans, onions, garlic, quinoa, or all three.  Point is, there has been some inspired cooking going on (along with some very uninspired phoning-it-in dinners as well, but hey, pobody's nerfect).  [Don't laugh at that.  I'm already embarrassed for quoting a joke from The Office that sounds more like it should have come from the mouth of Ned Flanders.]

3.  Exercise more consistently.  Unfortunately, this area has not seen the spectacular progress of my first two goals, but we're getting there.  Last week, I walked to work and back every single day.  That's about an hour of walking each day, and 18 total miles!  So that's pretty cool.  I also went to yoga on Tuesday night, pilates on Saturday morning, and did a workout with free weights on Sunday.  The Sunday before last, we went cross country skiing for about an hour and a half.  Aside from last week, which was really a banner week, exercise-wise, I have been walking to and from work often and making it to yoga and pilates on the regular.

8.  Get a new kitty.  No HIV or full-blown AIDS.  She was a keeper.  A sweet, cuddly, scratchy, bitey, little gremlin, but we kept her.  She and Ajax were getting along swimmingly, even grooming each other (which was even more adorable than it sounds) but then Hadley was spayed and things changed.  I don't know if it was the hospital smell when she came back, or some hormone changes, or what, but Ajax really wants nothing to do with her.  He hisses at her and tries to avoid her, but she's still all "Let's play!  And by play I mean let me pounce on you and bite you and steal your food!"   

Synchronized grooming

10.  Blog more.  Hello.  Sporadically is more often than never, so let's chalk this one up to a little victory.

11.  Paint the master bedroom and office.  I painted the master bedroom a few weeks ago, and it makes a huge difference.  It's much more 'bedroom' and much less 'cell'.  We're just waiting for closet doors and lamps for the night stands. 

The past two weekends, instead of painting the office, I tackled the 'man cave', which is the giant room with the fireplace in our finished basement.  It's pretty sweet, even though all we have down there right now is a couch and a TV.  Eventually, Andy wants to build a bar across from the fireplace.  Ironically, now that I've painted it, that's probably the last time I'll ever be allowed in there.  A 'no girls allowed' sign will probably be making an appearance in the near future. 

If only it could stay this clean forever.  Two cats and an Andy doth not a clean house make.  Or something.

12.  Ski on Utah snow.  Whoa-oh.  We're halfway there.  (I can't help it, I'm from New Jersey, guys.  It's a sickness).  Cross country skiing counts as half-completion.  It was a lot of fun, though, and I'm pretty excited to try real skiing.  This just hasn't been a good winter for snow here, though.  This goal may have to wait until much later in 2012, provided that next winter is actually snowy enough.  

Sink Hollow Trail

21.  Start using more natural cleaning/hygiene/beauty products.  Okay, natural products are expensive.  It is worth it not to get a chemical headache after cleaning, though.  I recently bought non-toxic naturally-derived toilet bowl cleaner.  It seems to work just as well as the Lysol I was using, but it has no odor and doesn't burn my eyes when I dispense it.  Great success. 

Then, I ran out of Aveeno SPF-15 Simply Radiant face lotion (which really isn't that objectionable compared to some other brands, but still) so I made the switch to Avalon Organics SPF-15 face lotion.  So far, so good.  I always get really nervous when I switch skincare products because I have super sensitive skin (I had such horrible acne as a teenager that someone once told me it looked like a rat chewed on the side of my face.  Thanks, nice person, for so harshly criticizing my physical scars that I am now also emotionally/mentally scarred) but this has been fine.

I'd really like to switch my toothpaste and mouthwash to natural versions.  I hate that most toothpastes and mouthwashes have artificial colors in them, and I think it's probably worth it not to be cleaning my mouth with gross chemicals.  Along those same lines, laundry detergent and dishwasher detergent are pretty high priorities, too.

To make myself feel better about the meager changes I've made since setting this goal, let's focus instead on the natural products I was already using:

Tom's deodorant (only in the winter, though...I haven't found a natural product that can combat my summertime stank yet - any advice out there?)
Yes to Carrots nighttime face cream
Bare Minerals foundation and blush
'Earth Friendly Products' Dish soap
Method or 7th Generation cleaning/disinfecting wipes
Method tub and sink cleaner
7th Generation disinfecting spray
Vinegar and water solution for mirror and glass cleaning


...Aaaand then I found five dollars.  Anyone else making any progress with goals/resolutions?

Ode to Oats

In which this blog lives up to its name, for once.  Because, as you will see, I have some very strong feelings about what I eat for breakfast:

Hi my name is Katie and I love oatmeal.  I love it so much.  I can't live without it.  Some might call it an addiction.  An obsession.  I just call it friends with benefits.  I single-handedly keep the oat industry afloat and the oats, in turn, support a fiber-rich diet that keeps my heart and digestive system happy.  Everybody wins. 

I eschew all other breakfast foods in favor of oats.  Cereal?  Meh.  Pancakes?  That's cute.  French toast?  No thanks.  Omelet?  I'd rather not.  Oats, people.  It's gotta be oats.  I order oatmeal at diners.  I bring oatmeal camping.  I pack it in my suitcase so I can microwave it in a hotel.  Oh. My. God.  I can't live without oats.  If it were socially acceptable to strap a feedbag to my face, and fill it with oatmeal, I don't even know...I wouldn't not do it, that's all I'm saying.

"Cheerios?  F that S!  STEEL CUT OATMEAL!"  (source)

[If you don't get the bastardized Blue Velvet reference above, we can't be friends anymore until you watch the movie.  If you at least watch this clip, we can talk.]

This oat mania is out of control.  I cannot be satisfied by merely one kind of oats.  I am in a polyamorous relationship with all forms of oats, but I do have my favorites.  Most of the time, I divide my affections more or less equally between old fashioned oats and steel cut oats.  It keeps the spark alive (not that we need any help, thankyouverymuch).  You know what else spices things up?  Literally?  Spices.  You seriously have not lived until you've liberally dusted your oatmeal with cinnamon and ginger.  Mouth heaven. 

Because it's February and you all deserve to feel as much love as I feel right now, I'm going to share some of my favorite oatmeal concoctions.  Maybe you'll be inspired to find your soulmate in a steaming hot bowl of creamy love porridge, too.  Or, you know, you could be less weird and just eat some oatmeal sometimes because it tastes good and is good for you.  Also, it's so cheap!  Who doesn't want to get on board with that?!

So I'll quit my BS'ing and just show you some kinda blurry Instagram pictures of my favorite ways to eat oats.  Let me just preface by saying that regardless of the type of oats or the kind of fruit you add, no bowl of oatmeal would be complete (in my world, anyway) without walnuts, raisins and/or dried cranberries, cinnamon, ginger, and almond milk.  You can use regular milk, too, but I'm on an almond milk kick right now and I'm pretty happy about it. 

To round out your breakfast, you obviously also will need a strong, hot cup of coffee (also with almond milk or your milk-type beverage of choice if you're into that sort of thing), orange juice, a multi-vitamin, and half a grapefruit.  If you're OCD like me, you may come to realize that you HAVE to have this for breakfast or you will go through your day feeling like something is terribly amiss.  You will cycle through the list of things you could possibly have forgotten that morning, like underwear, or deodorant, or brushing your teeth.  But your completely irrational concerns will all boil down to breakfast.  It's the only thing that really matters, and, let's be honest, some days (most days...okay, every day) it's the most enticing reason to get out of bed.

Don't be jealous of anything you see in this picture.  I know it's hard not to wish you were eating this, the ideal breakfast, and drinking your coffee from this fantastic American Gothic mug.  (thanks Beth, if you ever read this!)

A few very important ingredients:  Steel cut oats, cinnamon, ginger, dried cranberries, raisins, and walnuts.  Don't judge my giant cinnamon.  I use a lot.  I have a problem.

Old fashioned oats with walnuts, raisins, and peaches!

Not to climb back up onto my oatmeal soap box again, or anything, but I feel like oats get a bad rap as being bland and punishing, or taking too long to cook.  Not true!  All they need is a little love.  Old fashioned oats cook in the microwave in less than 3 minutes, even with the extra few seconds of cooking time you need when you add frozen fruit (I keep bags of frozen berries and other fruit in the freezer at all times).  Just don't buy the quick-cooking oats or those awful packets of pre-flavored, heavily sugared oats.  Unless you like eating wallpaper paste or (wallpaper paste that tastes like cavities and hypertension). 

And don't add sugar to your oats!  That's what the raisins and fruit are for!  Natural sweetness!  Oats are good for you, processed table sugar is not.  Adding sugar to your oatmeal would be like washing your hands and then drying them on a pair of dirty underwear - gross, wrong, unnecessary, and defeating of the original purpose.  No?  Weird extreme metaphor?  Sorry.  I have a lot of feelings. 

The classic:  Oatmeal with blueberries, raisins, and walnuts.

The breakfast in the above picture actually contains cold, leftover steel cut oats.  On Sundays, I like to make a big pot and refrigerate the leftovers.  Usually I dish some out into a bowl and nuke it, but lately I've been in the mood to eat it cold, which is just as good!  Anyone who complains about the time commitment that oats require should try this, since the preparation time goes down to about 15 seconds if you want to eat it cold.

Frozen strawberries and cold, leftover steel cut oats. 

Nothing like eating a pile of cold and/or frozen things on a frosty winter morning.  I planned to microwave these strawberries for a few seconds before I put the oats in my bowl, but this was pre-coffee so I forgot about 2 seconds after I told myself I was going to do that.  Instead, I ate the whole thing cold, and it was delicious.  Almost like ice cream.  Oh god.  Is it morning yet? 

Old fashioned oats with banana slices, raisins, and walnuts.  

If you're wondering what to do with your last two brown, slightly mushy bananas, and you're too lazy to make banana bread (and you are too lazy), here you go. 

Saving the best for last:  Freshly cooked steel cut oats with diced apples, walnuts, and raisins

This.  This is the closest I will ever get to heaven.  It's like eating pie that is actually good for you.  That's all I will say, and I'll leave you with this:

EAT

Please Won't You Be My Neighbor?

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood.  That's a lie.  It's gray and ugly, and worst of all, raining.  I am told repeatedly that this is not a typical Utah winter, and I am assured that normal winters are much colder, much grayer, but filled with piles of fluffy, powdery snow.  That sounds horrible and wonderful at the same time, like drinking a fine wine while someone takes a lead pipe to your kneecaps. 

Honestly, I don't remember the last time I experienced a typical winter anywhere.  Last year in Idaho, we started off the winter (or mid-late fall to most people) with monstrous amounts of heavy, wet snow that, had my jobs and the grocery store been outside of walking distance, would have paralyzed me and my economy car completely.  The previous winter in New Jersey brought more snow than I can remember.  More snow than anyone alive can remember.  For realsies.  Snowiest winter on record.  After the sky finished it's bulimic snow-purge onto the Eastern seaboard, we had about a four foot high pile of snow in my mom's front yard, between drifting and snow shoveled from the sidewalk. 

Is there even such a thing as a typical season?  Do we ever actually experience weather patterns that make us think, 'Hot damn, this is truly the epitome of spring in this geographic region'?  Or do we always find some flaw in the weather or deviation from our ideals or expectations that prompts us to assure ourselves 'This is highly unusual...surely next summer will be back to normal'?  Or is the whole planet just going completely cray-cray, as both Al Gore and the Mayans have so wisely prophesied?

But I digress.  I didn't intend to go on a tirade about the most banal small talk topic of all time.  My intended topic, folks, is one Mr. Fred McFeely Rogers.

from Wikipedia

I am him.  He is me.  We are one.

Aside from our mutual, undying love of cardigans, we share a very important trait.  You see, I have developed a curious habit of late.  I change my shoes when I enter the building.  I am now the person who walks to work in one pair of shoes, and changes into another when I get there.  You are probably thinking, 'Hey, that's not so weird, a lot of women walk to work in sneakers and put on heels when they arrive.'  But that's not it. 

The last three times I wore high heels (because those are the only times I can remember between high school proms and now) I was also preposterously drunk and wearing a dry-clean-only silk dress.  I don't do either of those two things at work, so why would I wear heels, either?  I'm not fancy, or short, or a masochist.   (Interestingly, Mr. Rogers was none of those things, either, as long as you believe that devoting over 30 years of your life to filming a wholesome children's show with spooky hand puppets and a "mailman" who maybe should have been on a sex offender registry wasn't painful.  Coincidence?)

So, why do I change my shoes when I get to work?  (The real question should be, why don't I change my clothes when I get to work, because let me be frank and admit that by the time I get there I am sweating like Rick Santorum at a gay pride parade because I am never not running late and therefore always power walking like an a-hole.)  I change my shoes because I am the proud but smotheringly overprotective mother of these babies:

Steve Madden

They're so pretty.  I could never taint them by trudging through snow, slush, puddles, or dog poo (seriously, people of Utah, why do you let your dogs crap on the sidewalk?).  I can't bear to damage them, so I wear them only on dry surfaces.  Every morning, I carefully pack them in my backpack with my lunch (don't worry, Mom, the food is in a separate compartment) and lace up my trusty 8 year old Doc Martins so I can speed-toddle down the street over the solid ice that forms on the sidewalks after anti-social homeowners don't shovel the snow in front of their houses and then people inevitably walk on it and pack it down.  Yes I have fallen.  No I'm not injured.  Yes I was annoyed.  Nobody saw (I hope).

I love a good pair of Docs.  Don't get me wrong.  But they don't really go with a lot of my clothes, and they kind of make me feel like Frankenstein.  But they are officially the only pair of shoes I own with any traction (snow boots might be a solid investment, but I like to deprive myself of functional items just for S's and G's).  And they are so comfortable.  Thus, I enter work looking from the knees down as if the 90s just coughed up a hairball.  Daria called, she wants her footwear back.  What?  But then I scurry into my cubicle and slip into these beauties and all is right with the world.  If loving my boots this much is wrong, I don't want to be right.

Plus or Minus

We had a wee bit of a pregnancy scare last night.  But don't worry.  Everyone's fine, everyone's barren.  The stray cat I found at the liquor store is not pregnant.  Probably.  It's kind of hard to tell.  Speaking as someone with little to no experience with pregnancy of the feline or human variety (ok no experience whatsoever) I can't really tell if her behavior and outward symptoms mean that she's pregnant or just in heat. 

I'm leaning towards 'in heat' because 1) I really do not want a pile of slimy newborn kittens showing up on my floor one day and 2) she's been slithering around all evening making this 'murrowww' sound that seems to be cat-speak for 'DO ME'.  Either way, GROSS.  I will spare you (most of) the gory details, but I want to spread a little of this misery around by making it quite clear that engorged cat nipples are disgusting on so many levels (including but in no way limited to the sheer quantity of nipples, oh my god) that I can't even begin to describe how uncomfortable it makes me to pet Hadley right now.  This little hussy cannot get spayed quickly enough.

Hadley was supposed to get her lady parts excised last Friday (on the ominous 13th), but she had a chest cold thing going on so we pushed back the surgery.  Maybe that was a bad idea.  Is there an abortion cut-off for cats?  I tried looking up the legal precedent set in the landmark Meow vs. Wade case, but my iPhone literally punched me in the face for making such a weak pun.  And I mean literally in the most literal actual sense, not the 'I really mean "figuratively" but I am literally too dumb to understand the meaning of the word "literally"' sense.  It's amazing how sassy artificial intelligence is getting these days.  And my (antiquated, Luddite) iPhone doesn't even have Siri!

So clearly, I should have made 'writing about cats incessantly' one of my New Year's goals.  I would be spanking that so hard right now.

In other non-cat related news:

We are going to Sundance this weekend!  I demand a Ryan Gosling sighting, or I want my money back.  I have no idea if he's even going (because, you know, we talk, but the topic never seems to come up) but seriously?  How could you not love him in Lars and the Real Girl or Half Nelson?  And how could you not adore internet meme Ryan Gosling?  In my humble and totally unbiased opinion, Librarian Hey Girl is by far the best one.

This is my favorite iteration.  It's naughty. 

Source

And in case you are wondering and couldn't fill in the blanks sufficiently on your own, allow me to translate.  That is the Library of Congress call number for the book, The F Word, by Jesse Sheidlower.  See for yourself. 

While we're tossing around a celebrity encounter wish-list, I also wouldn't mind a Rashida Jones sighting.  She's in a Sundance film with Andy Samberg (who I ALSO wouldn't be disappointed to espy from afar!) called Celeste and Jesse Forever.  It looks really cute - we aren't seeing it at Sundance but I'm going to keep an eye out for it when it comes to theaters.  But I digress.  I've been toying with the probably terrible idea of cutting my hair, and Rashida has been frequenting my radar screen.  And by radar screen, I mean she's carved herself a nice little niche on my Pinterest, and I have a tiny little girl crush on her.  And her hair.

Is that totally stupid to hope that I see certain celebrities (or any recognizably famous person, really)?  Yes.  Yes it is stupid.  But also fun.  And it's a behavior that has been ingrained in my personality since the height of Zach Morris mania.  True story.  Once upon a time in 1993 or thereabouts, I saw a commercial for the Philadelphia Auto Show.  There might have been some cars there, or something, but all I cared about, and all I could think about for the next month, was Mark Paul Gosselaar.  He was going to be there signing autographs, and obviously he was going to fall in love with the creepy jail-bait 8 year old seeking his autograph and we would live happily, if scandalously, ever after.

Amazingly, my awesome mom took me and my then 6-year-old cousin Michael to the auto show and waited in a forever long line for an autograph.  Naturally, I had Zach Mr. Gosselaar sign a giant Saved by the Bell poster that came as a centerfold in some random teen magazine.  It was the best day of my life, and the day I retired my even-creepier 'Ernest Goes to Jail' Jim Varney poster (that I used to kiss every night before bed because why?) and replaced it with something slightly more age-appropriate.

I have no doubt that Sundance will be a slightly less pathetic but no less euphoric experience.

The Blizzard That Wasn't

Yet.

I may be speaking out of turn. The forecast changed so many times throughout the course of today, it's really anyone's guess. We could still get 10 inches tomorrow, supposedly. All I know is that I was robbed of the opportunity to trudge almost two miles home from work in a blizzard and then complain about it bitterly afterwards.

Side note, you know how typing on an iPad is a delicate and not always accurate process? Well, that imprecision is amplified tremendously when two cats are vying for the limited space on your lap. And when one of those cats weighs almost 20 pounds and is crushing your organs, and the other is tiny and cute but likes to swipe at your screen and try to eat your diamond ring because it's shiny and waving around while you type. It's a first world problem, for sure, but life is so hard sometimes, right?

Other side note - small kitty just swiped the screen and somehow typed the letters 'non'. I am positive she was trying to type 'Nyan (and I'm purposely leaving off the closing apostrophe because every time I added it, this terrible iPad auotcorrected it to 'Nyanja' as if that is even any more of a word. What even is that? A poptart cat trained in martial arts? Please enlighten me). Point is, this cat is so smart. Real point is, Andy is away and the human to cat ratio is currently at a shameful level in this house. I feel a little weird about that.

Ho-ga

I am simultaneously awesome and terrible at yoga.  The physical part is no sweat, literally or figuratively.  Of course, the classes I attend are not advanced, but still.  I am so freakishly flexible that sometimes I feel guilty for being so awesome when I know that people in class who are struggling probably see me and wonder why their own bodies can't contort into completely unnatural positions.  Which brings me to the terrible part.  I am a complete and abject failure when it comes to the spirit of yoga.  I am a big old Judgey McJudgerson.  Judge Judy.  I am a mean girl.  At least, my inner-monologue is a very mean girl who would give Regina George a serious run for her money.

OMG, you're not seriously already sweating during the first downward dog.  Because that's gross.

Yoga is not about walking in off the street and being the best.  It's not a contest, it's not about winning, and there is no perfection in yoga.  It just doesn't exist.  And it isn't one-dimensional.  It's not just about how much your anatomy functions like a Gumby figurine.  It doesn't matter if you're a Cirque du Soleil performer with rubber bones and surgically removed ribs.  No matter how flexible, how strong, how balanced you are, if your ego worms its way into your poses, you're doing it wrong.  And I can't make my brain stop thinking about other people's flaws!  Yoga is supposed to be about YOU (me).  It's doing the best you can with what you have, and "honoring your body" and feeling "oneness" with others and all that foo-foo.  I can get on board with that, really, I can.  They are nice ideas.  But way harder to do than standing on one foot while holding the opposite big toe and drawing that leg up so my knee touches my face.  Way, way harder.

Last night, I went to my first yoga class in a while.  I was really looking forward to it, because I last attended two weeks before Christmas.  I was hoping this would be a soothing, quiet session, but two minutes into class, as we were sitting cross-legged with our eyes closed 'finding our center', my hopes were dashed.

There is a large group of girls that come to yoga every other week.  I gather that they are doing this for some kind of college requirement, as they seem to be about college-age, they travel in a pack, and they range in enthusiasm from moderately interested to apathetic to living in complete dread of every pose.  The lineup of this group has changed substantially from last semester to this one, but the pattern is the same.  They roll in a few minutes after class has started, and there are too many of them for this to be a silent, unintrusive process.  They come in chatting and laughing and take their good old time removing coats, shoes, and socks.  Those of us who had the courtesy to arrive on time are forced to break concentration and rearrange our mats to make space for the late-comers.  I think it is at this point that I get irritated and start giving my inner-monologue permission to be a complete and total biotch.

To be fair (to myself), I will say that I'm not shallow enough to judge what these girls are wearing.  At least, I'm not judging the girls who look sloppy.  Because this girl right here isn't winning any fashion awards in her hunter green polyester/fleece blend American Eagle lounge pants circa 1999.  Unless people get fashion awards for wearing part of their high school gym uniform 8-12 years later.  I know I look like a scrub...after hearing the phrase "it's not a fashion show" ad nauseum throughout my entire childhood and adolescence whenever I agonized over what to wear, I can finally accept that the gym is definitely one place where I should not care about my appearance.  That being said, I will relentlessly judge anyone who looks too dressed up for yoga...like the 65+ year old woman who comes on Saturday mornings, late, fully coiffed and made up, with some kind of leopard print silky shirt and lots of jangling gold bangle bracelets.

But I digress.  So these hussies tramp into the studio like they own the joint and, to the instructor's credit, she doesn't miss a beat and she doesn't backpedal to accommodate these egregious violators of the social contract.  Eventually they settle into place and start halfheartedly taking poses.  Soon we find ourselves hanging out in a downward dog pose after we cycle through our first 'vinyasa'.  You may or may not have ever found yourself in this position before, but after viewing the illustration below, you will probably agree that it does not look difficult. 

Source

It is not difficult.  It is a basic warm-up stretch.  So you will join me in my surprise and sadness when I report that I saw, from my upside-down vantage point, two girls behind me panting and sweating.  They had dropped down to their knees and were guzzling water and toweling the dripping sweat from their faces.  In the first 10 minutes of class.  Does.  Not.  Compute. 

If I were a better person, I would channel that observation into thinking positive and encouraging thoughts for these girls, and feeling grateful for my own body's abilities.  But I'm not.  I'm a terrible person!  Instead of doing that, even after the thought crosses my mind, I twist it into feeling superior!  It's horrendous, and I'm pretty sure if anyone else in class could hear my thoughts, I would get jumped and summarily smothered with a yoga mat.  And they would probably use the sweatiest one, just for good measure.  Like, ew.

But fortunately, my terrible thoughts are my own, so we soldier on.  The girls who aren't writhing in pain or hyperventilating continue to apathetically follow the instructor.  There is usually a lot of self-conscious giggling from these girls when they inevitably really suck can't do something or look feel ridiculous.  That's super annoying, because I've been programmed to assume that anyone giggling behind me is giggling at me, and then before I can reason with myself I'm all, "Yea, I'll give them something to laugh about" and I start pushing harder into whatever pose we are doing.  This just serves to push me farther to extremes, physically getting more out of yoga but mentally backsliding. 

It's a terrible inverse proportion of success, and the more I think about it, the more I think I should just go to a more challenging class that will put my ego back in check.  One where I will consider it a victory simply if I make it through class without farting.  You know what?  Let's be honest, that's never not a victory.